


The Case of the Ridiculous Sentence Prompts

by freudensteins_monster



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Drabble Collection, Fake Character Death, Gen, My First Work in This Fandom, Objectification, Platonic Life Partners, Random & Short, Ridiculous Sentence Prompts, Science Experiments, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 01:37:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4460288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freudensteins_monster/pseuds/freudensteins_monster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ridiculous sentence prompts, some of them immediately made me think of Elementary. My first fic in this fandom. Hopefully I did okay. xoxox</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this tumblr post: http://toxixpumpkin.tumblr.com/post/108022477839/ridiculous-sentence-prompts

Joan sat up and winced in the grey light of morning. It was far too early to be up; something had woken her but in her groggy state it took her a moment to remember what it was.

_A noise._

There it was again. Footsteps, drawers opening and closing: Someone was downstairs. Joan slipped out of bed and retrieved the baseball bat she kept under it (her baton and mace where in her handbag, which she had inconveniently dumped by the front door) and her phone (thankfully on her bedside table). She crept down the stairs, careful to stick to the sides to minimise the creak of the aging floorboards. When she reached the foyer she saw her latest case file strewn about in front of the fireplace. She dialled 911 and spoke softly to the emergency services officer as she continued towards the kitchen.

“This is Joan Watson, I’m a consultant with the 11th Precinct. I think there’s an intruder in my house.”

“Ma’am, can you get yourself to a safe place?”

Joan ignored the question as she moved to the doorway with every intention of confronting the intruder. He stood leaning against the sink, deep in thought as he shovelled cereal into his mouth.

“Sherlock? What the hell?!”

“Ma’am?”

“I’m sorry. It’s a false alarm.”

“You called 911?” Sherlock asked incredulously, dumping his bowl in the sink.

Joan glared at the all too familiar intruder before putting her bat and phone on the table lest she throw them at his head. She grit her teeth, trying to ignore him for the moment while she put the milk back in the fridge. She picked up the cereal box and, shaking it experimentally, grimaced before throwing it at the bin across the room.

“You’re angry with me.”

 **“Who wouldn’t be angry?”** Joan shouted, all hope of remaining calm evaporating. **“You ate all of my cereal and faked your death for three years!”**

“I’m afraid the ruse was necessary. The Juarez Cartel are notoriously vengeful. If my death had not been utterly convincing they would have hurt you to get to me. I couldn’t risk returning, risk your safety, until I had managed to dismantle their entire organisation. It was an agonisingly slow process, I’m afraid.”

“You expect me to believe you – you, the great Sherlock Holmes - couldn’t find a way to get a message to me without them knowing?”

“I did attempt to send you a message via carrier pigeon after the first year but I was informed by my contact that one of our neighbours adopted some sort of vicious hell spawn, otherwise known by the unimaginative moniker, Whiskers.”

Joan shook her head in dismay, picked up her bat and phone and stomped back up the stairs.

“I take it you’re going to be upset with me for some time, correct?”

Joan slammed her bedroom door in reply.


	2. Chapter 2

Joan finished up with a client and returned to the main house. She dropped the mail, hung up her coat, and froze.

“Hello…”

Joan stared at the black and white rabbit sitting in the foyer, which stared back at her with nervous interest. She picked it up before calling for Sherlock.

“Up here.”

She found him in the media room doing his memory training exercises, but all the televisions were on mute so Joan had to assume he was brushing up on his lip-reading at the same time. She waited patiently for him to finish, smiling at the bundle of fluff in her arms. Of all the random things Sherlock had brought home, a rabbit was definitely one of the better, and least threatening, on that list. Sherlock finally turned around and glanced from Joan to the rabbit.

“What are you doing?”

“I found this little guy waiting for me at the front door,” Joan said by way of an explanation as she scratched behind its ears.

**“Please stop petting the test subject.”**

“What did you do to it?” Joan sighed, immediately holding the rabbit at arm’s length until Sherlock took it from her.

“I’m conducting an experiment on the effects of cannabis on rabbits, namely the rate at which it leaves their system.”

“Is that safe? What if it kills them?” Joan demanded as she followed Sherlock downstairs to a small homemade pen, divided into three sections, in which two more rabbits lay prone next to the remnants of cannabis leaves.

“That is not the outcome I’m working towards. But, as is the nature of experimentation, one may not be able fully anticipate all possible outcomes. What I hope to prove is that the stain on the victims clothes is the urine of a rabbit who had eaten cannabis within the last 24hrs, thus proving that the victim was in the home of our suspect – pot grower, irresponsible pet owner, and possible murderer - shortly before his death. The captain will not request a warrant for a sample of the pet rabbit’s blood until the lab results on the clothing come back, proving my theory, and the lab results will not be available until after the weekend. So I am conducting my own experiment for a basis of comparison. The first rabbit was given a few leaves five hours ago; the second, one hour ago. And this,” he said, placing the third rabbit down in its assigned segment. “Is my control subject. Obviously, having not imbibed any depressive substances, the control subject is more energetic than its brethren, hence the escape attempt.”

“I have a lot of questions,” Joan stated slowly. “Firstly… do I want to know where you got those leaves?”

“From the suspects grow house, naturally. There were dozens of plants, I hardly think evidence collection is going to notice a few leaves missing.”

“Is that all you took from the grow house?”

Sherlock, finding the question not worthy of a proper response, replied with a derisive stare and returned to the media room.

A few days later, after the pot grower, irresponsible pet owner, and definite murderer was charged, Joan was sitting in the library going over a new client’s case notes, the three rabbits asleep on a blanket beside fireplace. Well, two of them were sleeping.

“Delete, no! Bad rabbit!” Joan scolded, removing a case file from between its teeth.

“What did you just call it?” Sherlock asked from the next room.

“Delete,” Joan repeated. “You know, Control, Alt, Delete. I thought it was funny,” she added quietly.

Sherlock blinked once and returned his attentions to his beekeeping message boards.

“Please stop naming the test subjects, Watson.”


	3. Chapter 3

Joan was woken by the frustratingly familiar plodding of a small tortoise on her stomach. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and found Clyde, dressed in a knitted cosy made to resemble a cupcake, staring back at her. Pinned to the aquamarine frosting was a note advising Joan to get dressed, in clothes set out for her, and meet her partner downtown. Joan, after fighting the urge to go back to sleep for five minutes, relented and did as requested, but not before putting her reptilian cupcake back in his terrarium.

 

“You’re not wearing the clothes I put out for you,” Sherlock stated flatly, eying Joan’s modest outfit warily.

“Good morning to you, too,” she replied, sitting opposite him at a café table. “It’s too cold, and that skirt was too short.”

**“The skirt was short on purpose.”**

“And why would you want me to wear a short skirt?” Joan demanded, preparing herself for the weirdest answer possible.

“I found a man who matches witness descriptions in the surveillance footage, and tracked him to that office building,” he said, pointing across the street. “He is, in fact, the manager of his own boutique accountancy firm, one Douglas Halden. A quick perusal of his internet history didn’t reveal anything that could connect him to the crime. It did, however, inform me, in graphic detail, of his predilection for dominatrix’s with an Asian appearance. I had hoped, with the right ensemble, your presence might divert Mr Halden’s attention during our conversation.”

Joan counted to ten.

“Your plan was to dress me up and let the suspect stare at my ass while you snooped around his office?”

“Your refusal to accept anything less than respect from even the most degenerate of my gender is commendable, Watson. But an investigator must be prepared to use all the tools available to them to achieve the required results.”

“The ends justify the means, really? That’s what you’re going with?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound as he sipped his coffee, his eyes never straying from the building’s door.

“You knew perfectly well that I wouldn’t be okay with this, so why try and trick me into compliance? You know an actual dominatrix – probably more than one. Why didn’t you just ask Mistress Felicia to put you in touch with one of her co-workers?”

“Mistress Felicia isn’t speaking to me at the moment.”

“And why not?”

“She’s still holding a grudge over some minor damage done to her iron maiden whilst it was in my possession. I maintain that the hinges were rusted through and that I am not at fault. There’s our suspect,” he said suddenly. “Shall we?”

“If you think it will rattle him I’ll try and play bad cop – but my ass is not a tool.”

“No, I agree. I was, of course, referring to your legs.”

“Shut up,” Joan laughed, shoving Sherlock into the path of a passing dog walker.  


	4. Chapter 4

“Watson.”

“Watson.”

“Watson.”

“Whaaaat?” Joan groaned as she tried to burrow further into her blankets.

“I was attempting to manufacture my own chloroform, and something seems to have gone awry. I’ve opened all the windows, including yours, but until I isolate the problem in my recipe I would recommend you tape over the gaps around your door and wear this.”

 “What the hell?” she muttered groggily as a heavy gas mask and a roll of duct tape hit her in her stomach. She glared at the lunatic with an aversion to sleep standing in her doorway, dressed in full protective gear, looking like a serial killer who melted his victims.

“I recommend you keep that on whilst you sleep. I’ll advise you when the fumes have properly dissipated and it’s safe to breathe without it.”

Sherlock turned and stomped back down the stairs, rubber boots squeaking. Joan sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, her brain still processing everything Sherlock had told her. Her nose wrinkled at the smell rising through the Brownstone and she reached for the duct tape. As she moved to the door her eyes fell on the digital display on her alarm clock and, suppressing a scream, she trudged to the landing.

**“Why exactly do you need chloroform at 2am?!”**


End file.
